There Is A Certain Even-handed Justice In

Trifles Make Up The Happiness Or The Misery Of Mortal Life.

Looking Forward Into An Empty Year Strikes One With A Certain Awe, Because One Finds Therein No Recognition. The Years Behind Have A Friendly Aspect, And They Are Warmed By The Fires We Have Kindled, And All Their Echoes Are The Echoes Of Our Own Voices.

A Thought May Be Very Commendable As A Thought, But I Value It Chiefly As A Window Through Which I Can Obtain Insight On The Thinker.

In My Garden, Care Stops At The Gate And Gazes At Me Wistfully Through The Bars.

Each Time We Love,we Turn A Nearer And A Broader Markto That Keen Archer, Sorrow, And He Strikes.